When All That Is Left
by agentmoppet
Summary: Against all odds, Severus Snape survived the war. With the Philosopher's Stone in his possession, what exactly is he planning? Written for the Quidditch League, Round Seven.


**A/N: For the Quidditch League, Round Seven.**

 **Prompt: write about the Elixir of Life.**

 **Extra prompts:**

 **8\. (word) revenge  
13\. (creature) spider **

It was a long shot, but it was all he had. When the boy collected the final drop of precious memory from Severus Snape's cheek and fled, Severus summoned the last of his strength and changed into the form that had been his blessing and his curse for years.

The spider twitched once, twice, and then was still. Eight eyes blinked slowly in reluctant acceptance; this was his fate, and he could escape it no longer.

But then he felt a surge of energy: a combination of the survival instincts of an animal too stupid to recognise its own mortal injury, and the magical dilemma of transforming the wounds of a fatal snake attack into an equivalent injury for this tiny form.

An equivalent injury would have killed a spider instantly, but Severus – the man – was not dead yet. Thus, he had created a small paradox. It was a long shot, but he hoped the spell would stutter enough for him to be able to take advantage of those survival instincts and produce the burst of adrenalin that would not be possible for him as a dying man.

It did. Severus scurried across the floor, his body protesting all the while. In a last burst of speed, he launched himself at the foot of the girl who stood waiting behind the door. He made it by half a second. The trio's decisions were made, and Hermione Granger began to run again.

Severus clung tight and hoped his body would hold out long enough for him to reach the castle. He could feel it failing already. As a man, he had only minutes left, and the spell was realigning itself, adjusting to the concept of a mortal wound. Soon it would give up trying to transfigure the wounds and simply shut his body down. But he could never have apparated to the castle without splinching himself, and slowing Potter down now by asking for help could mean the difference between success and failure for their cause. With all he had done for this, he wouldn't risk that now.

When they arrived at the castle and he was still alive, he could scarcely believe it. He abandoned the trio and fled to the dungeons, his movements slow and sluggish. With barely enough fight left in him to change back, he returned to his human form, found the antidote, and began the slow consumption of the potions that would heal him.

When the last potion bottle dropped to the floor, he had the presence of mind to change once again before he hid himself in a cupboard and slept.

* * *

When he woke he had no idea how much time had passed. Emerging from his hiding place, he quickly realised the fortuitous decision he had made. The room was destroyed. Had he not secluded himself in the stone potions cabinet, he could easily have been crushed. And even then, it was a near miss.

He folded his cloak about him and tested his weight carefully. He could move without pain; the potions had done their work. He strode quietly from the room and searched for answers.

From a distance, he watched the professors tending to the wounded. He watched them separate the healthy from the dying, and the dying from the dead. He watched their faces, and saw the hope and triumph behind their grief. They had won, his task was complete.

Minerva McGonagall lifted her head as if she could hear a sound in the distance. Slowly, she began to turn. Before she had the chance to see him, he left.

Severus walked up the barely visible path through the forest until he was standing in front of a small, wooden shack. If you were being generous, you could describe it as unassuming. The paint on the windows was peeling, and the door was falling off its hinges. It was neglected, forgotten, and in a prime position for warding against intruders. It was perfect.

Taking his time – all going well, he would have plenty of it – he ran his wand through the air, over cracks and crevasses, and transformed the inside of the shack into a replica of his potions lab at Hogwarts. Then, he plucked the innocuous looking stone from his pocket and set it on his work bench.

The Philosopher's Stone. Severus had given Albus no reason to believe he had not followed instructions and destroyed the stone when requested. In fact, he had taken the stone with every intention to do as Albus wished, but as he had held the stone and pondered who could possibly be so afraid of death as to prolong old age, it had occurred to him just why that thought was so appealing. And it had nothing to do with a fear of death at all.

So he had hidden the stone safely away, on the small chance that he would survive Albus' plans and be then free to continue surviving, for the first time, as his own master.

He stared, resolute, at the cauldron as the Elixir of Life bubbled inside.

* * *

The first year passed quickly as he spent his time keeping tabs on the wizarding world, although he stayed well hidden. He learned how they had won the war, and how the aftermath was surprisingly clean and tidy. He learned how relations began to heal, and new partnerships formed.

He quickly learned that his initial, vague ideas of spending the years engaging in small acts of revenge were pointless and misguided. If he knew the likely hideouts of missing Death Eaters, and the heinous crimes that had gone unpunished, he kept the knowledge to himself. For the former, the Aurors were surprisingly well coordinated, and it was clear they had no need for his information. For the latter... well, his steadily growing understanding of exactly what he had committed himself to was giving certain realities of human life a new perspective: revenge was for the dying. The small satisfactions of an eye for an eye held no meaning when confronted with unending millennia. They would all die in the end. All, except him. Revenge had no place in eternity.

Once he realised that, time lost all meaning. Nine more years passed as he spent his days perfecting his isolation. A few waves of his wand turned over the earth and planted seeds. A few more created an irrigation system that would need very little maintenance from him. He no longer needed to visit the village for food. He could spend more time in his shack.

A reluctant wave of his wand extended the shack on the inside, as he realised that one small room was not enough space for an eternity. He spent time in small villages, far from anyone he knew, selecting books for his library. In the evenings, he read.

It took three more years before there was a knock on his door. He rose, wary, and placed his book down without a marker.

"I should have known," he said as he opened the door.

Minerva McGonagall straightened her travelling cloak and raised one eyebrow. "You should have done many things," she said tightly, "and this was certainly not one of them."

He stepped back to let her in.

After he had served her tea, and she had conjured a tin of biscuits for the sparse table, she leaned back and waited.

"Need I remind you," Severus said slowly, his gaze as piercing as ever, "that I fulfilled my duty? All of it?"

"Not at all," Minerva replied, taking a biscuit and dunking it in her tea. She seemed to have relaxed a little now that he had begun to talk. "But I fail to see how that leads to hiding away in a forest."

"There is nothing keeping me at Hogwarts," Severus answered, setting his tea down with a small thump.

"There is nothing keeping you here," she countered.

Severus took a slow, deep breath through his nose. "I can brew in peace. There are no meddling children."

Minerva snorted rudely. "You could have as much peace and quiet in the country. No need to run away."

Severus steepled his fingers and studied her. "Which reminds me," he pondered. "How did you find me?"

Minerva dunked her biscuit again, taking her time. "I saw you leave after the battle."

Severus cursed under his breath.

"It took thirteen years for a sighting to pay off," she continued. "And even then, it was only because I had finally realised the extent of the measures you had employed for your-" she paused for emphasis, " _peace._ "

"Why bother?" he asked, raising one eyebrow in question.

Minerva raised her own eyebrows. "To convince you it was folly, of course. You received a full Ministry pardon. You're a war hero, Severus." Her eyes softened. "You don't need to hide."

Severus' lip curled into a sneer. "You think I'm hiding from _them_?"

Minerva's forehead creased together into a small frown. "Who? Everyone? No, of course not. Only-" she frowned again. "I thought you might be avoiding the eyes of those who doubted your intentions."

Severus turned away. "I do not fear the living."

It took her only a moment before she understood. When he turned back to her, there was compassion in her eyes.

"You can't hide from the dead out here," she reminded him gently.

To her surprise, Severus smiled. "Can't I?"

She tried to pry the truth from him, but Severus would not tell her about the stone. She suspected, of course, but without acknowledgement by him, they could not have the conversation, and so she could convince him of nothing.

She left, defeated, but with promises to visit and keep him company. As soon as she had left, he strengthened the wards and added several new ones. The new spells cost him dearly, and it took him weeks to recover from the depths of magic he had needed to draw upon to construct his safety net, but they had worked. When Minerva returned, he watched her prowl the outskirts for hours, searching for a weakness like the one she had found the first time. She left, defeated once more.

After several years, she stopped trying.

* * *

When Harry Potter died, he was shocked. Potter had been one hundred and fifty three. Severus looked at his calendar. He must have lost count. He had been certain only eighty two years had passed.

He threw the calendar away.

* * *

One year, he considered not brewing the potion. He stared at the stone, imagining it was taunting him. He could cast it aside, destroy his dependency on it once and for all. He was so tired. It wouldn't be so hard to give in.

Instead, he raised his wand and began the procedure again.

* * *

He dreaded the waking hours, but it was his dreams that truly haunted him. Always, they were dreams of red hair and green eyes, chasing him through curtains of thick black velvet. Always chasing, always running.

Always asking: why?

* * *

In an effort to quell the madness, he summoned an owl and sent it with a subscription to the Daily Prophet. It was a desperate attempt to make him feel like he was still part of the turning wheel, instead of forever on the outside.

The owl returned with a short missive explaining that the Prophet had ceased publication several decades ago. The indelicate inclusion of a pamphlet for wizarding aged care sent him into a spiral of fury. It was a surprisingly welcome change from the dull monotony of nothingness.

Unfortunately, it was short-lived.

* * *

He dreamed of dying. The sweet release of death called to him, but he denied himself for reasons he could barely remember. Red hair. Green eyes.

Minerva McGonagall haunted his memory with equal parts compassion and disappointment. On the days her disappointment was strongest, he felt he could almost destroy the stone. He clasped it in his hands, feeling the magic thrum its steady beat beneath his skin. But then her face changed, compassion sweeping across her features, and he would cast the stone aside.

* * *

The simple action of brewing the Elixir was the only marker he had. Everything else faded into the background, like breathing. He brewed it again, and again, and again, until it felt like poison dragging down his throat. But it was a poison he chose, and chose again. He could pretend it was penance, but he recognised the lie for what it was. His fear was a living thing, fed for centuries until he had no choice, and would have no other choice for as long as he lived.

He toasted eternity and drank.


End file.
